The night was a blur in Spencer's mind, a haze of memories that seemed to glow with the warmth of something he once had, but now was losing. The way you laughed, the way your hand fit perfectly in his—it was all slipping away, like grains of sand through his fingers.

He stood in the doorway of your shared apartment, the same place you both spent countless nights together, but now it felt foreign. You were leaving, your eyes cast downward as you packed the last of your things. Spencer couldn't bring himself to speak. His mind raced, trying to piece together when things had begun to unravel. He had had all of you once—your love, your trust, your laughter—but now, there was nothing left.

The love you once felt for each other isn’t here anymore. It may be, but it’s really weak. And it’s not enough.

Love sometimes isn’t enough when two people can’t communicate with each other and enjoy their time together anymore.

The silence between the two of you was unbearable. He wanted to ask you to stay, to put back your clothes in your closet, to put your toothbrush next to his again. He wanted to watch with you one last episode of Modern Family, or Friends. Whatever you wanted to. He didn’t care as long as it was with you.

But the words were stuck in his throat, lost in the overwhelming ache of knowing this was it. After a few seconds he decided to ask you something. He couldn’t help it.

“Do you remember the night we met?,” he asked finally, his voice slightly cracking.